


States of Agitation

by circa1220bce



Category: Sparks Nevada Marshal on Mars, The Thrilling Adventure Hour
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Croach the Tracker POV, F/M, Fluff, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, canon mpreg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-07
Updated: 2014-11-07
Packaged: 2018-02-24 10:13:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2577827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/circa1220bce/pseuds/circa1220bce
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All of Croach’s senses indicate that Sparks Nevada is in a state of heightened agitation. It is the third most agitated Croach has ever perceived him to be. It is by far the most agitated Croach has perceived him to be since learning of Croach’s fertilized state.</p>
            </blockquote>





	States of Agitation

**Author's Note:**

> I kind of can’t believe I wrote this?? But I had so much fun. Sparks Nevada and Croach have the best voices. This was inspired 100% by asutori’s artwork. Her drawings of Sparks and Croach are the cutest things in the universe and you should totally go admire them. You can find them [here](http://asutori.tumblr.com/arts).
> 
> This takes place roughly after #135, Station Break, then diverges from canon there (by assuming Croach is actually pregnant and not an incubator for that crafty and probably handsome Jupiter spy). Also I think I messed up some of the general Sparks Nevada timeline?? Oh well :)
> 
> **Trigger warning: there is a brief, vague mention of abortion.**

When Croach arrives, Sparks Nevada is sitting on the steps of his porch, his head in his hands.

Croach parks his hoversaddle next to Mercury and approaches on foot. When Sparks Nevada fails to acknowledge his presence, Croach simulates the human sound of a throat clearing and says, “You wished to see me, Sparks Nevada?” 

Sparks Nevada jumps to his feet. All of Croach’s senses indicate that Sparks Nevada is in a state of heightened agitation. It is the third most agitated Croach has ever perceived him to be. It is by far the most agitated Croach has perceived him to be since learning of Croach’s fertilized state.

“Yeah, yeah, thanks for — here. Inside. Take a seat,” Sparks Nevada says, herding him inside and gesturing to a padded seat.

Croach does as bid, and for doing so minutely lessens his onus to Sparks Nevada, the balance of which he keeps precise mental track. Although he sinks further into the seat’s padding than expected, he keeps his back straight and calmly rests his hands on his knees.

Sparks Nevada’s hands spasm in a series of unnecessary twitches and aborted gestures. “So, look. I – that is. Okay,” Sparks Nevada says. “Look. _Look_. I need — I need a drink. D’you want – no. What am I saying? Of course not. You're–” He flaps one of his hands at Croach. Croach does not understand what the gesture indicates, but neither does he immediately attempt to decipher its meaning.

They speak different languages, Croach has learned. Croach speaks across dozens of spectrums, most of which Sparks Nevada cannot perceive, and although Sparks Nevada speaks across only a limited number of spectrums, all of which Croach can perceive, most of them Croach cannot fully comprehend. But when Croach is patient and Spark Nevada’s need to express himself to Croach is great enough to overcome his own impatience — sometimes, then, they find a way to understand one another. 

Sparks Nevada leaves for an adjacent room. There is the clink of bottles, a hiss, and the heady smell of a fermented beverage. Croach hears several long swallows, hears Sparks Nevada muttering under his breath, “Just do it. Just _do it_. It’ll be fine,” and perceives Sparks Nevada’s agitation increase in direct contradiction to his proclamation that “it” would be “fine.”

Though Croach is of course blessedly free of emotions, his antenna twitch and a sensation not unlike that often described by Archibald the Alarmist spreads in his chest.

More clinks. Another hiss – more long swallows. Four measured thunks, each accompanied by a muttered, “Ow” – Sparks Nevada's head against a wall. At this pace, it could yet be cycles before Sparks Nevada manages to reveal the source of his distress. Croach amasses the knowledge available to him that it might allow him to discern the situation in a more timely manner.

They are at Sparks Nevada’s abode, which is itself unprecedented. But when Croach had arrived as the Marshal Station earlier that day, the Station AI had refused his entrance. The Station AI had been polite – had, in fact, been overwhelmingly apologetic. “I can't let you in. The Marshal has requested your immediate presence at his place of residence,” the Station AI had said, anguish over not being able to allow Croach entry clear in its artificial voice. 

So here Croach is.

The abode is recently cleansed — that is, filthy to at least seven of Croach’s senses, but marginally less so to four others, consistent with the result of Sparks Nevada’s periodic attempts to cleanse the Marshal Station. A radio hisses quietly in the abode. Croach intermittently hears what Sparks Nevada refers to as the “usual chatter” of any marshal’s radio. He hears Pemily Stallwark, Winner of the Moon's Punishment Soccer, occasionally answer or send out a message.

The radio volume is far too low for Sparks Nevada to easily hear. Mostly likely nothing short of an emergency distress signal would reach his limited senses. 

Sparks Nevada would never leave the Marshal Station unattended. Pemily Stallwark is attending to the station. Sparks Nevada cannot hear anything but an emergency distress signal emanating from the radio. Therefore, Sparks Nevada does not currently intend on returning to the Marshal Station for anything short of an emergency. However, Sparks Nevada would not willing cede the Marshal Station to anyone – even one so capable as Pemily Stallwark – for anything short of an emergency. 

Croach settles further into his padded seat. The brood growing within him are heavy. The abode is quiet except for the soft hiss of the radio, and it is no effort for Croach to focus on this relative silence and close his senses to the untold sounds and impressions ever present outside, stretching along the vast plains of G'loot Praktaw.

Croach ponders.

“Sparks Nevada,” he calls at a level Sparks Nevada should be able to perceive from the adjacent room. “You believe you have cleansed your abode.”

The thunk of the bottle against a wooden surface. Sparks Nevada's agitation levels abruptly lessen, and he finally returns to the same room as Croach. “Yeah. I _believe_ I have because I _have_. Look at this place. Not a speck of dust on her.” His lessened agitation is not apparent in his voice. More contradiction.

“I perceive _many_ specks,” Croach counters. “Innumerable specks, unless you define ‘dust’ in such a restrictive manner as to render the concept meaningless.”

“I _dusted_ ,” Sparks Nevada says. He wipes his right index finger down the doorway and holds it up for Croach’s inspection. “See? Spotless. I–”

“I detect multiple–”

“No, you know what? I – ugh.” Sparks Nevada rubs the bridge of his nose with two fingers. “This ain’t what I – I didn’t ask you here for a lecture on – Okay. Let’s start over. How you holding up, Croach?”

“Holding 'up'?” Croach repeats, allowing his voice to clearly communicate his disdain for what is surely another of Sparks Nevada's indecipherable human colloquialisms. “I am not by any manner holding anything in the direction above us, nor is anything–”

“No – No, I know. I – how’re you doing? That’s what I meant.” Sparks Nevada repeats the flapping gesture towards Croach’s form that he had made earlier. Croach registers its meaning. 

“You ask about our progeny, Sparks Nevada,” Croach says. While Croach has dutifully kept Sparks Nevada appraised of the progression of his fertilized state, this is the first time Sparks Nevada has initiated inquiry. This is the third – no, _second_ most pleased Croach has ever felt regarding an inquiry into his own well-being. “The gestation is progressing as expected. My ovum appear to my senses healthy. I can feel that they are beginning to shed the temporary membranous capsule coating their shell glands–”

“Got it, okay, good,” Sparks Nevada says. He sits heavily in a padded seat opposite Croach. He repeats, “Good.” Then he exhales loudly in what Croach understands is the human act of “sighing.” He also understands it can signify a multitude of human emotions when performed at varying speeds and volume, even if Croach cannot entirely discern between them.

“I been thinking,” Sparks Nevada says. “And I ain’t – this whole situation. It’s not what I pictured, you know? But I ain’t — listen.” Sparks Nevada then attempts and discontinues a series of unintelligible sentences, each begun with the word “listen” but with various inflections and accompanied by various gestures. The repetitions are unnecessary; Sparks Nevada has Croach’s complete attention already, on more spectrums than he can possibly understand.

“Listen,” Sparks Nevada says one more time, and then, “This is something – you got a – a – you got _my_ – growing in there. So sooner rather than later you’re gonna be birthing – er, that is, laying – ugh. Gross. Uh – sooner rather than later my young’un is gonna be coming outta your – ugh, no, worse. That is so much worse.” Sparks Nevada returns his head to his hands.

“Yes, since you have fertilized my ovum, I am currently gestating our 'young'un,' as you refer to them, and after a measurable amount of absolute time, those 'young'un' will indeed 'come out of my body,' hatch, and then fight amongst themselves for dominance until the alpha offspring has consumed the others. You are stating facts of which we are both fully aware,” Croach says.

The radio crackles. Local human Felton screams for _HAAAALLLLLPPPP_. Sparks Nevada does not appear to register the sound, even though the pitch of Felton's voice is far higher than even that of the emergency distress signal. 

“I know, I – I’m leading up to something, Croach. Just – just give me a minute, yeah?”

“Time is a concept that neither I nor anyone else is capable of exchanging by–”

“You know what I'm trying to–” 

“Ignoring the meaninglessness of the notion, I have already ‘given’ you several–”

“And you say _I’m_ the impatient–”

“That is because you _are_ the impatient one, Sparks Nev–”

Sparks Nevada falls back into the padded seat, his hands still over his face, and shouts to the ceiling, “ _I’m showing you my feet_ , okay!” Croach is shocked into silence. “That’s what I’m – what I been – here. Look!” Sparks Nevada leans over and begins rapidly unlacing his footwear in what is clear preparation for following through on his announcement.

Croach waits for Sparks Nevada to indicate that this is some inexplicable example of human “sarcasm” or “joking around with your buddies.” But Sparks Nevada keeps unlacing, and when he grips the sole of one boot and begins to tug, Croach quickly averts his gaze.

“Sparks Nevada, showing feet among my people is–”

“You know I know what it means, Croach!”

Croach stares at the far wall. There are eleven laser holes in the plaster that appear to have originated from three separate altercations. Evidence of four inexpert paint jobs, each roughly a year apart. Smudges indicative of the prior placement of furniture. Small scratches along the corners indicative of some of the insects and rodents that managed to adapt – and, in certain cases, thrive – after the humans inadvertently brought them to G'loot Praktaw. Several items in chipped and crooked frames – three faded photographs of the planet Earth from different perspectives, Sparks Nevada's marshal certification, a single dried and pressed Earth rose. _Innumerable_ examples of dust.

On the radio, local human Felton breathlessly recounts every detail of the spacecraft parked illegally in his fields and how its alien owners are heavily armed and even now approach the Marshal Station. Pemily Stallwark “dares them to try anything funny,” though Croach privately doubts that the armed aliens' intent could be designated humorous.

“When I thought Red was — I weren’t expecting that neither. But I was going to do the right thing by that woman. Because she means so…” Sparks Nevada trails off. Croach continues to study the wall, although he had memorized all of its pertinent features within seconds. Sparks Nevada sighs again, and again Croach is unable to decipher its exact nuance. “And it took me a while to wrap my head ‘round it, or maybe I just didn't want to, but I reckon that you — that is. I.” Sparks Nevada clears his throat. His levels of agitation have risen and now are the highest levels of agitation Croach has ever perceived him to experience. “I-reckon-I-wanta-make-an-honest-Marjun-outta-you,” Sparks Nevada says very quickly, the words blended together. Then at his more normal pace of speech, but a quieter volume, “You get me?”

Croach senses that Sparks Nevada is looking at him, but he continues to focus on the wall. He senses the nakedness of Sparks Nevada’s feet, because he senses also the sudden nakedness in Sparks Nevada himself. Unlike Croach and his people, humans do not generally consider those two states of being as inseparable. He does not know what level of nakedness Sparks Nevada perceives he is displaying. It is possible Sparks Nevada does not believe he is displaying any at all.

Croach wants to look. But he will not.

“I do not require your assistance to be honest,” he says.

“I know, I – the feet. I’m showing you my feet, Croach. Right? You get what I'm saying?” Croach does not answer. There is the sound of Sparks Nevada’s head returning to his hands. Muttered, so not meant for Croach to hear, “And I thought this chat with Red was as painful as it got.” The sound of him straightening. “Look, Croach. I got to thinking, like I said. And one of the things I got to thinking – anyone else do to you what I did and acting how I been acting…him and me, we’d be exchanging words. And by words understand I mean robot fists to the face, and by exchanging understand I mean me pummeling that so-and-so until either my robot fists lose strength or my anger dries up. And while my robot fists ain’t never failed me yet, that well of anger – just thinking about that other fella – well, that anger runs deep. And I reckon it wouldn’t be my anger what runs out first.”

Then Sparks Nevada stop verbally speaking but does not stop communicating. Croach perceives Sparks Nevada make a series of small movements and impressions indicative of deep embarrassment and even deeper resolve.

On the radio, the Marshal Station AI announces that unidentified but heavily armed aliens are demanding entry. Pemily Stallwark commands the Station AI to permit their entry. “I survived and won Punishment Soccer, the Moon's deadliest bloodsport. Their funeral if'n they think they can just show up here pointing weapons and making demands at _me_ ,” she declares.

Croach says, “I would be under onus to you if you covered your feet once more.”

A long sigh. Croach perceives that this one is markedly different from the previous ones, even if he does not understand what the difference signifies. “Right – right. No, that’s fine. It was just a dumb thought I had. I – fine. It’s fine. Don't even – let's forget it. Fine.” He makes a noise indicating frustration. No – not frustration. Disappointment. When Croach is certain that Sparks Nevada’s feet are covered, he turns to face Sparks Nevada again. Sparks Nevada’s countenance is unhealthily pallid, and he stares at the floor between his covered feet.

Croach had wanted to look. 

But he had also wanted Sparks Nevada to offer his nakedness of self with full comprehension of what he was offering to Croach.

“This conversation was not necessary,” Croach says. “You share no resemblance to that nonexistent 'fella' for whom you harbor deep anger. You are the most honorable being I have ever met. It was never in doubt that you would fulfill your parental obligations to any offspring that you begot.”

“I ain't that good a fella,” Sparks Nevada says – but under his breath, so Croach was not supposed to have heard and so is not welcome to refute. “That ain't – this conversation ain't just about my obligation to the young'un.” His head is still down; he runs his hands through his hair. “It's about my obligation to – to – to you, Croach. Obligation ain't – that ain't the word, though. I _want_ –”

“Then this conversation is even less necessary,” Croach says. “The obligations between us are obvious. I am fulfilling my onus to you for saving my tribe – as well as fulfilling the personal onus to you I have since acquired while fulfilling said primary onus – and you are allowing me to do so – for which I am also under onus, that I do not have to return to my tribe in shame for failure to repay all that you have done for both my tribe and for myself.” 

“That's not – why're we still talking about this?” Sparks Nevada does not look up. “You ain't wanna see my feet, and – whatever. Right? Whatever. Marshal Station. I should get back. I left Pemily in charge and it wouldn't do to have her getting too comfy in my marshal chair.” He makes no move to rise or leave his abode. 

Contrary to Croach's objective with his explanation, Sparks Nevada's levels of agitation have risen sharply again, and Croach perceives his own levels of agitation begin to rise in empathy.

“My senses perceive that you are highly agitated,” Croach decides it is time to say. Although Sparks Nevada rarely appreciates Croach informing him of his emotional state, given how much of this conversation has been a repetition of facts of which they are both aware, perhaps in this instance Sparks Nevada's agitation is such that he would welcome the information.

Sparks Nevada's eyes narrow. He opens his mouth.

Or perhaps not.

Croach quickly elaborates, “You are highly agitated because you feel you have failed to express to me whatever you requested my presence here to express. If you managed to express yourself, your agitation may lessen.”

Sparks Nevada closes his mouth. He slumps further in his padded seat. And now he is the one who turns to study the far wall.

It would probably be unwelcome and so would not lessen his onus, Croach decides, for him to list the wall's pertinent features, thereby saving Sparks Nevada the effort. 

On the radio, Felton whimpers from under a desk. The unidentified aliens scream and threaten. Pemily Stallwark laughs in a manner that Croach would designate “bloodthirsty.” But of all the instances of bloodlust Croach has perceived in her, and there are many, this does not rank in even the top twenty. He believes there is no reason to call Sparks Nevada's attention to the radio and suggest they return to the Marshal Station and offer her aid.

“You took this real well,” Sparks Nevada says. “This whole – this whole situation. And you ain't indicated in any manner that you even for a moment planned on – on – taking steps to being – being – _un_ -pregnant, if you get me. Not that I _wanted_ – and even then it ain't for me to – so.” Yet another sigh, but longer and lower. So…you happy, Croach? This something you – you wanted?”

Croach is startled. “Of course I have not sought to discontinue the fertilization. It is in fact with great eagerness that I anticipate our offspring. Offspring has always been among my primary desires. As for my current state of 'happiness,' while I did not imagine it would be by you, I can think of many, many beings by whom I would be significantly less pleased to be fertilized, and I can think of no beings by whom it would please me more.”

Sparks Nevada's cheeks darken with a sudden rush of blood. He briefly returns his attention to Croach only to immediately turn his focus back to the wall. 

“Are you happy as well, Sparks Nevada?” Croach asks, when Sparks Nevada does not speak. Croach has come to understand how often humans ask questions for the purpose of being asked the same question in return. 

“I don't rightly know. My head's just been turned around. And I got to thinking about – about you. All that anger I got just from thinking ‘bout that other fella don’t even exist, I–” Sparks Nevada's fists clench. He takes a deep breath and unclenches them. “It ain’t outta nowhere. And it ain’t the sort of anger I court for any old reason. Red reckons–”

“You spoke to The Red Plains Rider?” Croach asks. He had thought The Red Plains Rider was located on the other half of G'loot Praktaw, far away from Sparks Nevada and Croach both. While her presence is not usually one of which Croach takes particular note, her absence is always sorely perceived. 

“Didn’t mean to, understand,” Sparks Nevada. “But we answered the same distress call and after that got to drinking, and that led to talking. Way too much talking. But she has a way about her that makes it all kind of easy to say what I wouldn’t never say to nobody else.”

“And The Red Plains Rider told you to invite me to your abode and show me your feet?” Croach says doubtfully.

The back of Sparks Nevada’s neck and the tips of his ears now match the blood-darkened tone of his cheeks. He scratches the back of his neck, and he still does not move his focus from the wall. “Well…there was a mighty lot of talk ‘bout her being tired of choosing between folk, and about – about other. Other things. Wasn't me what suggested – but I reckon she’s playing a long game. Angling for a very specific resolution to this here triangle we all been drawing between us. If you take my meaning.”

Croach searches through his memories of their past interactions. 

On the radio, the unidentified aliens whimper. They beg Pemily Stallwark to allow their retreat and offer profuse apologies and sincere promises to never return again. 

“Sparks Nevada, none–”

“No, I know, I ain’t mean us literally drawing shapes, Croach,” Sparks Nevada says.

“Then no, I do not 'take your meaning.'” 

“Think about it – or no, actually, don't.” Sparks Nevada shakes his head. “One step at a – and it don't even – whatever. It don't matter anyhow. You ain't interested, this was dumb, I think I heard on the radio Pemily is killing things, so like I said let's forget–”

“What, exactly, do you believe me uninterested in?” Croach asks. 

“You're killing me here,” Sparks Nevada groans. “You know what I'm – you do know, right?”

Croach rarely does, when it comes to Sparks Nevada. He tilts his head and waits.

“I – that is, Croach, listen,” Sparks Nevada says. He takes a deep breath. “You know – you're my best – my best – my best…You know I've gotten used to your – we been riding together for a long time now, you know that, and I, that is, ugh. Okay, if you were ever to pack up and leave – I – and it wasn't something I _meant_ to want, but I want – because you – and – and – please tell me you get what I'm saying–”

Croach considers Sparks Nevada. He considers Sparks Nevada's attempts to cleanse his abode, his uncovering of his feet, and his varying levels of agitation and embarrassment and resolve. He considers the possibility that Sparks Nevada understood the precise level of nakedness he'd shown. 

Croach perceives warmth throughout his entire body, even to the tips of his antenna.

It is the most pleasurable warmth he has ever experienced.

He should inform Sparks Nevada that further elaboration is likely unnecessary. Instead, Croach sits back in his padded seat and allows Sparks Nevada to pace around the room, stammering and making meaningless gestures and failing to express a single complete sentiment.

Croach listens until he is certain that he understands Sparks Nevada perfectly.

Then he says, “Sparks Nevada, I would be honored to enter into reciprocated onus with you, and when the time is appropriate – and allow me to inform you that when my ovum are already fertilized by you it is _not_ appropriate – I would be honored to show you my feet, and to see your feet in return.”

“Oh thank god,” Sparks Nevada says in one long exhale. He comes forward and collapses on the wooden table in front of the padded seat on which Croach sits. Between the height of the table and how far into the padded seat Croach has sunk, their faces are level. “Yes, that, all the way. That's what I – the same words – not the egg part, but the rest – reverse 'em and right back at ya, pal.”

Then he leans forward, but halts himself. His face is very close to Croach's face. “What's the general consensus on kissing?”

“Kissing?”

“While you're–” The flapping hand motion again. “Fertilized. No kissing, neither?”

And sometimes Croach does not understand Sparks Nevada at all. “What relation does the act of kissing have to a state of–?”

“Oh, good,” Sparks Nevada interrupts, and then he leans forward and presses his lips to Croach's. Sparks Nevada's lips are rough and wet. His hands on either side of Croach's face are firm and calloused. His knees against Croach's knees are sharp and boney, and the cloth of his Marshal uniform is abrasive. His eyes are closed, and his eyelashes tickle Croach's nose, and his hair tickles Croach's antenna. He smells sharply of human sweat and human cleansing chemicals and tastes strongly of fermented beverages. 

No, Croach decides, _this_ is the most pleasurable warmth he has ever experienced.

Croach makes a noise deep in his throat that he does not choose to dignify with a signifier and leans forward as far as the padded seat allows, all of his senses trained on Sparks Nevada as he eagerly kisses back.

Much sooner than Croach would prefer, Sparks Nevada pulls back – although he does not pull back very far – the both of them breathing heavily. He blinks rapidly at Croach and licks his lips and appears in a dazed manner similar to when one of his metal enemies has managed to successfully land an attack. “ _Multiple tongues_ ,” Sparks Nevada says faintly.

Croach frowns. “You are well aware that I–”

“ _Ain't_ a complaint, Croachly,” Sparks Nevada says, and Croach would protest this grossly incorrect signifier except Sparks Nevada returns to kissing him and then Croach forgets what he had been going to protest. 

Sparks Nevada sighs into Croach's mouth, and this sigh Croach understands. 

Later – Croach does not track the time – they break apart, their foreheads resting against one another's. Sparks Nevada's hair continues to tickle Croach's antenna. Their knees still touch, and between their knees Sparks Nevada holds both of Croach's hands in both of his. 

They settle into relative silence.

If they existed in an alternative universe in which Croach suffered the ability to experience emotions, and if in that hypothetical universe he was forced to designate the emotion he currently felt towards Sparks Nevada, he believes that the most appropriate designation would be “love.”

Croach says, “Sparks Nevada, you are under onus to me for relieving you of the burden of verbally expressing the human affection you feel towards me.”

“Yeah, sure, just add it to my tab,” Sparks Nevada says, but with more satisfaction than usually accompanies his acceptance of the complex obligations between them. “It's fine.”

This time, Croach's senses detect no contradiction in the proclamation.

Sparks Nevada still holds both of Croach's hands in his. He squeezes Croach’s hands, and though he does not entirely understand the impulse, Croach squeezes Sparks Nevada's hands in return.

On the radio, Pemily Stallwark whistles a cheerful melody as she cleanses the Marshal Station walls of blood.


End file.
